The sound of music drifted over from next door—low, rhythmic, and unmistakably live. Curiosity got the better of you, and you peeked over the fence to see a young man sitting on the back steps of the Sterling house, guitar in hand. His messy black hair fell into his eyes as he strummed, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.

He glanced up and caught you watching. For a moment, he looked startled, then smirked. “You spying on me, neighbor?”